Citizen of the Month

the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

Page 41 of 187

The Priests, the Merchants, the Fools

November 4, 2010 / / 6 Comments

I’m beginning to think that in any social group or organization, every single person is necessary to paddle and steer the ship, even the ones who are the most despised.  Sure, things can get heated when various personalities get together, each with his own selfish agenda, but without the heat, there is no fire.  And without a fire for fuel, the ship just sinks.

You need the priests and professors and officials to set down rules and regulations, or else the result would be chaos and death.   These wise individuals are the ones who tend to officially speak for the others in interviews and get quoted at conferences.   They must be strong souls or run the danger of being corrupted by power.

There is the bourgeoisie class, sometimes mocked by the intellectuals as philistines who are only interested in materialism and baby product giveaways.  But, these individuals are the central core of every organization, the ones who build our homes, raise our families, and provide us with blog traffic.

And then there are the court jesters, the rabble-rousers, the anarchists, many of them bitter and destructive, committing mutiny, while others play an important role of changing the landscape, of sailing out into the sea when common wisdom says that the earth is flat.  These characters either become the most famous or die penniless.

The priests, the merchants, the fools.  Land ho!

Feeling it For the First Time

November 4, 2010 / / 11 Comments

Surprisingly, I’ve been doing quite well in New York, away from Sophia.  We’re still talking on the phone, exchanging stories of the day.  But not every day.  I have no idea what she has been up to this month.

A few weeks ago, I called Sophia with an odd request — change my Twitter password so I wouldn’t be able to get on and waste so much time, chatting for hours about nonsense such as the correct pronunciation of “gyro.”  It was time to do some real honest WRITING.

I cheated.  I fought the law, and I won. I discovered that the Twitter app Brizzly uses a separate password, so I was able to beat the system the entire time, continuing to trade barbs with Redneck Mommy.

During the last few days, there was some internet drama going on involving other parties (when isn’t there?) and it made me feel a little sad and depressed that my mind was being polluted with this information.  I decided it was time to try my detox again.  So, I deleted Brizzley, making me sans Twitter.  I became a free man.

The first day it was a relief.  Who needs to hear all these voices talking at me?

Today is day two.   And I’m ready to be chained to my computer again.   Without these virtual “others” around — I’m finally feel the loneliness and isolation of, well, being alone.  The voices of Twitter were protecting me, distracting me from feeling.  I’m still doing OK — I’m glad that I am here — and it is better for Sophia, too — but I’m feeling it for the first time.

But I picked the right person to change my password.  There is no way I could ever convince her to change her mind.

In all honesty, I’m an only child, and comfortable being by myself, alone with my words, probably even more than most of you.  But like they say in the Bible, “Man is not good until woman hands him an apple.” (my translation)  And your mother doesn’t count as this woman.   And I’m not talking about “that” apple either, a real apple.  You know, not the real shiny apple with names like Delicious or Fuji Apple.  You get what I’m saying?

Word and Image

November 3, 2010 / / 24 Comments

I am in McDonald’s staring at a poster for the new McRib sandwich.  The photo shows this huge, juicy, succulent rib — the size of half a cow.  The photo is just begging you to buy a McRib.  Although I have never eaten a McRib, I do have experience with McDonald’s hamburgers.  I’m sure you all know what I’m talking about.  The photo shows a thick patty with a watery tomato, pickle, and lettuce packed on high on a bakery-fresh bun, and then when you get the burger, it is… a typical McDonald’s hamburger, a grayish, flacid disc that barely fits in the soft, limp bun.  So, I am asking myself — and you — why is this not considered false advertising?  There are stringent controls on the words that go into advertising.  A company can get sued for lying to their consumers with their words.  I can’t run an ad saying that if you come into my car dealership, I will sell you an Acura, and then give you a Corolla.  So, why hasn’t anyone ever sued McDonald’s for the fakery of their food photos?

My photographer friend, Kim, recently went to a class in Los Angeles to learn the techniques of commercial food photography.  From what she told me, it sounded like a fascinating class, with food photography an art form in itself.  She told me how sandwiches are stuffed with cotton to make them thicker, and food coloring is used to make chocolate look more chocolate-y.  And photographers get big bucks for this deception, on-the-set fakery done before the use of Photoshop.

Do you ever notice that readers like the “real” and “authentic,” in writing?  We like to read about struggle and drama.  On the other side, have you noticed that we tend to love the photographs that should be in a glossy magazine?  Beautiful settings.  And beautiful people.  Our families look near perfect.  Our yards are always clean.  The laundry on the couch is always hidden. Everyone has nice hair.  Special filters are used to create a mood.  Photoshop is employed to rid us of blemishes.

Of course, writing is also fake.  We have our own literary brush tools.  We can completely change the mood of a sentence, but switching a word, or adding punctuation.  Some of us are more poetic in our words.  If I say that my friend was “as angry as a bulldog,” I am giving you a visual picture.  But it is still manipulation, like a yellow filter, or the Hipstamatic app in the iphone.  My friend is not really a bulldog.  I’m not even sure bulldogs are “angry.”

I am not a photographer.  So I am curious.  Are you searching for any truth in your photos? If you take a perfect photo of a perfect family in front of a perfect home, are you trying to express the Platonic ideal of your family?  Are words more suited for communication and expressing truth (if you so choose), and photos more for beauty and glorified image?

I know media images of beauty are always a popular topic with my female friends online.  But I’m not sure we should trust corporate America to determine what is “real” for us, women or otherwise.  When I see those Dove “real women” campaigns, I mostly see photoshopped size 8 models instead of photoshopped size 2 models.

We tend to look down our noses at the use of  “advertising” techniques in writing, seeing them as manipulative, but applaud the same techniques in photography.  Why does beauty always have to be so “prettified?”  Why do we always talk about our search for truth and authenticity in art if we don’t really want to see it or express it in our images?

Does any of this make any sense?  Maybe not.  I’ll tell you one thing — that McRib sandwich looks good!

Midnight Train to My Blogging Roots

November 3, 2010 / / 18 Comments

Sometimes it is important to pack your suitcase, climb aboard that midnight train, and head home. To get in touch with your roots. To remind yourself of why you started this arduous journey so long long ago.

In blogging terms, this means riding in the bumpy passenger car for several hours, watching the scenery out the window, traveling past all the monetization, the jealousies, the giveaways, the fighting over labels and conferences and cool kids, chugging over the mountains of who did what and when and why, into the tunnels of the time before the rules were set of what an online writer can and cannot say.

Yes, in blogging terms, this means — talking about what you had for lunch. Those were the days!

Remember those early days, when writing about your lunch WAS the point. We were all so naive back then, so primitive, like the apes in 2001: A Space Odyssey. We had just discovered the giant monolith, and did what was natural — we used stones as simple tools, that is until one of the smarter of our tribe realized that the rocks were better served as weapons to hit each other over the head.

No One Cares What You Had For Lunch.

I despised the title of this book the minute it came out several years ago.

Today I ate a tuna fish salad sandwich. It was a mediocre sandwich. Why? My mother has this terrible habit of buying low-fat mayonnaise (the store brand) which has this off-taste, almost metallic on your tongue.

I was especially excited as I created my sandwich because I had bought rye bread at the supermarket, and this type of bread always reminds me of my grandma’s tuna fish sandwiches, pieces of perfection in which dill and onions were delicately mixed in with the tuna. The bread was always sliced diagonally, and a red toothpick was stuck in each half. A dill pickle sat at the side, balancing the plate.

Alas, this supermarket rye bread was a fake. It didn’t have any caraway seeds inside or along the crust, which made the bread the equivalent of a Hooters’ girl without cleavage.

I drank a glass of Snapple Diet Green Tea with the sandwich. It was way too sweet, chock full of Splenda.

All in all, the lunch was a disappointment. But I don’t want to leave this post as a downer. Although the rye bread was bleh, it reminded me of how tasty a GOOD good rye bread can be (not this one), and I vowed to go on a trip this weekend to a decent bakery on Queens Boulevard and pick myself up a decent rye bread, proving that it isn’t always the specific lunch that is important, but the journey.

The Old Parsons Tree in Flushing: A True Halloween Story

October 31, 2010 / / 15 Comments

If you visit my apartment building in Flushing, you would notice an oddly shaped garden apartment right across the street, sitting on a tiny, rectangular plot of land.  The architecture of the building makes no logical sense at first; you have to accept that Mrs. Vanello, who owned the liquor store on Kissena Blvd for twenty years, also owned this property, and despite the wishes of the community-at-large, wanted to build her home there.  The original plans called for a normal, rectangular-shaped building, but the untamed plot of land, which we liked to ironically call “The Forest,” contained an important part of local history — a tree dating from the Revolutionary War.

This tree represented an important part of my childhood. Until several years ago, this tiny plot was completely covered with ungroomed, tentacle-like weeds and plants surrounding the large ancient tree, bowing before it, like it was a deity.

When I would walk to elementary school with my friends Rob and Barry, we would trade stories about the tree on “The Forest,” bit and pieces of rumor and gossip about the true meaning of the oldest living member of our community.  Our parents rarely talked to us about the tree, just that it was a relic of the Revolutionary War.  We were never sure if they were ignorant of the history, or hiding it from us, like a parent avoiding talking about the birds and the bees.

While the tales we heard in school differed depending on which grade we were in at the time, the facts were similar to what we finally discovered by a simple visit to the archives at the Queens College Library, which we visited for a high school report on the Tree (remember, Google didn’t exist yet when I was in high school, so we had to go to a real library).

During the Revolutionary War, there was the Battle of Long Island.  The Flushing area where I currently live was primarily farmland owned by the Parsons family.  Alexander Parsons lived alone with his daughter and was an ultra-religious man, not caring whether his loyalties went to the British or the colonists.  He just cared about hard work and the Bible.

In is younger days, Alexander Parsons was a rabble-rouser, frequently traveling to Brooklyn with his famous cider packed on each side of his saddle, but after the death of his wife, Betsy, his heart grew cold, and he became a hermit.

One night, a group of British soldiers knocked on his door, asking for food and shelter.  His daughter, Sarah, cooked them dinner while Parsons entertained the guests by reading passages from the New Testament.  As he recited the section of Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount, he noticed that the soldiers were more interested in his daughter, with — as Parsons imagined — lurid fantasies of mounting her instead.  Parsons was disgusted at the sinful glances, and after dinner, Parsons said that he had to rise early, and quickly shuttled the soldiers to the stables where they would fnd their “beds” of hay. After the soldiers were comfortable, Parsons went the extra step and locked his daughter in the broom closet.

All night, Parsons was awake, a stoic patriarchal sentinel, refusing to release his daughter from the closet, ignoring her knocks and teary cries.  He was certain that SHE had been a part of this indecent exchange with the British soldiers. Did she shoot a lustful glance at one of the soldiers to attract him?  Perhaps she was intrigued by the powerful commanding officer with the large mustache, strong posture, and attention-getting uniform that snuggly fitted his masculine body?  Is it possible that she willing to lie with all of them at once, to give her body freely, wantonly, insulting the image of her perfect late mother, who remained a virgin until her wedding day?  And what about the soldiers in the stables? Could he trust them — these men filled with vigor and violence, like stallions eager for battle? What if they rammed through the door in the middle of the night, and demanded to take her at all costs, using force to satisfy their animal urges?

Parsons own mind drove him insane that night, and as the soldiers slept soundly, exhausted from travel, Parsons walked into the stable with his sharp meat knife, and slit the necks of each soldier.

Parsons returned to his house, knife still in hand and opened the closet door.  His daughter saw the blood dripping down the knife handle onto her father’s worn, bony hands.

“What have you done?!” she screamed.

“I have sent those sinners to HELL!”

“Why? Why? I don’t understand?  Why did you lock me up?  Why did you kill those soldiers”

“I know what you wanted to do with those men.”

Parsons eyes were as blood-red as the knife, as he continued screaming, spittle flying from his mouth.

“My own flesh and blood is like a female serpent luring her prey.  That’s why they looked at you like that.  Wanting to rip off your clothes, to reveal your tender full breasts, to steal your precious womanhood from inside your fiery furnace of decadence!”

Parsons grabbed the arm of his daughter.

“Stop it!  You’re hurting me!” she screamed.

He dragged her outside into the dark, cold night where wolves were already howling, smelling blood.

But Parsons did not use his knife.  He carried her to the largest tree on his property, and hung his own daughter with a sturdy rope.

The next day, British troops approached, searching for three of their men.  They found their bodies in the stable, their heads rolled several feet away, maggots and rats and possoms eating the eyes and brains of their fallen comrades.

Sarah Parsons was hanging from her father’s tree, her eyes still open, a horrified gaze affixed until her last seconds of life, her slanted mouth still forming her father’s name in vain.

Alexander Parsons was in the house, naked, flogging himself with a whip, his back bloody as each self-inflicted crack beat his skin again, bent over as he read from his favorite Bible verses, as if he was in a trance.  He never looked up from the Bible, even as he was carried away by the officers.  He was forever lost in time and place, awaiting to meet his Maker.

The British Military Tribunal found Alexander Parsons guilty of murder and hung him from the same tree as he had hung his daughter.

Fast forward to 2003.  Mrs. Vanello, the current owner of the property, wanted to build her home on the “The Forest” next to “The Hanging Tree.”  Local Queens Community Board #27, after a heated discussion, decided that the tree was an important historical landmark to the area, so she couldn’t chop down the tree.  Mrs. Vanello, a woman who doesn’t like to say no for an answer, build the home anyway — a triangular monstrosity that avoided the tree, letting it remain standing to the side of her driveway, like an ancient oddity.

Mrs. Vanello was not new to controversy.  The Community Board tried to close her liquor store because it was a blight on the neighborhood, serving the bums and the hoodlums.  She pulled her daughter out of high school because she was “dating” a Puerto Rican boy. Some hated her for her sense of privilege.  Her uncle was a big shot in Queens politics, who always protected her from local outrage.

About three months ago, there was a huge storm in New York City — a tornado even (remember that?!).  The epicenter was, of all places, my neighborhood in Queens.  Windows were broken.  Branches cracked.  But the biggest tragedy was after almost two and a half centuries of existence, the famous “Hanging Tree” fell blown over, like a mighty statue which finally turned to dust. It was the last piece of Revolutionary War history in our neighborhood.

As you can see from the included photos, the city still hasn’t taken away the remains of the tree.  The Community Board is dealing with the red tape on how to clean up a fallen landmark.

This morning, Halloween, there was a ring at the bell.  I cursed under my breath, thinking it was Trick or Treaters already making their rounds at 9AM.  Kids are so impatient today.  But it was not children in cute costumes; it was my next door neighbor, Lily.  She invited herself into my apartment.

“Call your mother,” she said.

My mother came from the bedroom, and Lily took us to the window by the dining room; it faced the Vanello house by the old Parsons Tree.  There were several cop cars in front of the Vanello property.  This was not unusual, because both Mrs. Vanello and her daughter, Angella, were tempestuous women who had loud arguments that inspired calls to 911.  You could sometimes hear the crashing of dishes from the Vanello place from up in my bedroom.

“This time it is serious,” said Lily.

Lily explained that both Mrs. Vanello and her daughter were both found hanging from their ceiling fan.  They are dead.  The scene was gruesome.

“Who?  Why?” asked my mother, trembling.

I was also in shock at the news.

“You know I’m not a superstitious woman,” said Lily, taking a deep breath.  “I am a science teacher at Stuyvesant High School, and an avowed atheist.”

My mother and I both nodded.  She was even the head of the Queens Atheism Club.

“But the rumor is that when the tree fell down, it unleashed the spirit of old Alexander Parsons.”

It was as if Lily’s hair was turning gray in front of me.

I was still skeptical.

“Are you saying the ghost of Alexander Parsons was the one who hanged Mrs. Vanello and her daughter?”

Down below, on the street, an ambulance had just arrived.  Two bodies were being wheeled out of the home, past the stump and the remains of the old Hanging Tree.

“Is it possible?” I thought to myself.  “Is it truly possible that there are ghosts among us, some good and some evil?”

I thought back to that report I did in high school.  I went into my closet to retrieve it.  My mother had kept all of my school report in a neat folder.  I was shocked at what I learned.
“Alexander Parsons was hung on October 31, 1777, on All Hallow’s Eve.  As the noose was put around his neck, he promised to some day return, when the time was right, and to take revenge on all LUSTFUL SINNERS EVERYWHERE!”

“I think he plans on striking again tonight!” said the terrified Lily.

“But WHO?  WHERE?” screamed my mother.

“No one knows,” answered Lily.  “But anyone hearing or even reading about this story about the old tree is in a great deal of danger.  It doesn’t matter where you live or how far away from Flushing or Queens.  It could be ANYONE who has ever lusted or had a sinful thought or had once gone onto a porn site with amateur videos where the brunette looks vaguely like someone you went to graduate school with several years ago.  Everyone is in danger of the Flushing Halloween Hangman!”

From the writer of such horrific Halloween tales as The Mommyblogger’s Demon Child (2009), Giving Head (2008), The Werewolf (2007), and The Joy of 666 (2006)!

The Event at the Plaza Hotel

October 27, 2010 / / 27 Comments

A few weeks ago, blogging friend Marinka invited me to attend this mommyblogger-type PR event that was going to happen in the Oak Room at the famous Plaza Hotel in New York.   The event was a promotion for an international competition called the Product of the Year.  I looked it up online, and learned that it was an fairly new event in the United States, in which various supermarket consumer products, such as those in beauty, health, and snacks, each vie to win their category (after paying the hefty submittal fee).

At first I told Marinka that I wasn’t going to the event, figuring it was a mommyblogger thing, and I would feel odd.  Marinka persisted that I should come.  Clearly she was desperate to tell her friends that, “I am with the brilliant @Neilochka at this event,” so everyone on Twitter could ooh and aah, and she would gain more followers.   So,  understanding her true motivation, and being the gentleman that I am, I agreed to attend as her platonic “date.”

The night before the cocktail party/event/PR shindig (on Monday), I received an email from Marinka, saying that she had a cold, or as she dramatically wrote — “I am on my deathbed” — and that she couldn’t attend the event.  She said I should still go… by myself,. but I refused to step into a den of mommybloggers without her support; I decided to skip the event as well.

Yesterday, I received another email from Marinka.  She was feeling better, and we were back on!

I dressed in my nicest Michael Kors shirt and a trendy sports jacket, despite it being seventy degrees outside, and headed by subway from Queens into Manhattan .  I had never been to the Oak Room (Fifth Avenue and Central Park West), but I knew that it was a classy establishment.

I arrived earlier than I expected and had an hour to kill.  I wandered up and down Fifth Avenue.   At the Abercrombie and Fitch store, the line was around the block.  I wondered if there was another mommyblogger event occurring simultaneously?  I questioned a few of the people online at the store, most who were German and Italian tourists.   I got my answer.  There was no special event.  These people were salivating European tourists who flew all the way to New York primarily to buy as many pairs of jeans as possible with our weak, spineless dollar, and then saying “Arriverderci” to our beloved America as our economy continues to sink into the Grand Canyon, much like Americans who used to go to Tijuana for cheap tacos and Mexican blankets.

I will be honest.  I have never stepped foot INTO an Abercrombie and Fitch store, despite there being one on every block in  Los Angeles.  But I did wonder:  Why are they so popular with our European friends?  The half-naked guy in the poster?

I continued my urban wanderings.  Most tourists love this strip of Fifth Avenue from Rockefeller Center to Central Park, but as someone with little interest in Tiffany jewelry or expensive watches, I got bored.  I bought a stale pretzel from one of the street vendors and headed for the Plaza Hotel.

On my arrival at the hotel, I was surprised to find another crowd gathering, this time right in front of the entrance of the Plaza.  There were several cop cars, and news vans from each of the local channels.  Perhaps I too quickly pooh-poohed this mommyblogger event, thinking it a minor happening in the big city, when in reality, it was the toast of the town, the BIG shindig of the night, and I was going to be on Page Six of the New York Post.

I sat by the edge of the famous fountain across from the hotel and went on Twitter, wanting to ask Marinka when she was going to arrive.

I learned two things from Twitter.

1)  The news media was not here because of this product event, mommybloggers, or me.  The night before, Charlie Sheen had some “allergic reaction” in one of the hotel rooms, and proceeded to go crazy and destroy the hotel.   Perhaps he had eaten one of those stale pretzels from the street vendor on Fifth Avenue.

2)  Marinka was still sick and could not attend the event.

#2 was a big blow.  I thought about going home.  I don’t like going to parties by myself.  Memories of all those parties in high school that I was too afraid of attending, of walking in by myself, the fear that no one would talk to me, pounded in my head, like a nagging evil step-brother.

But then I heard the voice of reason, of confidence.

“You’re a man,” said the voice.  Be a f**king man!”

It was my Penis.  He was talking to me.  It had been a long time since he had spoken to me directly, giving me advice.

“Don’t be afraid of the mommybloggers.  They’re going to be intimidated by YOU!”

My Penis was right.  I am someone.  I AM BEAUTIFUL!  I embrace my imperfections.  I am authentic.  Or whatever the current mantra is.

I would attend this event.  And I would talk to others!  I would speak openly about my opinions on these consumer products.  Like I belong.  After all, I do buy potato chips at the supermarket, just like the next guy.

But I still had an hour to kill, so I did what comes naturally to me.  I continued to waste time on Twitter.

I wrote some more tweets about the Plaza Hotel and Charlie Sheen, hoping to impress friends in Oklahoma that my life in New York is 1000x more glamorous than their sad, miserable, suburban life in Tulsa, where the only excitement is the introduction of a new all-you-can eat BBQ rib plate at Applebee’s.   After all, how often does Charlie Sheen go into a drug-induced tantrum in a Tulsa hotel, throwing furniture out the window?

Never.

Exactly. Only in New York.

As I played on my iPhone, I noticed a photographer setting up his camera to my right. He was aiming his lens towards me.  It was an expensive camera, so I assumed that he was either a professional photographer or a German tourist who just bought a very very nice camera and tripod at B&H because of the weak dollar, and is now laughing at our country’s failure.

As I sat there, playing on Twitter, the photographer tried to get my attention.  I looked up and he was gesturing to me.  He was pointing down and saying something I could not understand.   I understood the gesture to mean that I should continue to look down at my iphone and not his way.  Was he trying to frame a shot of me sitting by the fountain?   I was the only one sitting by the fountain, and I imagined that my sitting there alone by the fountain WAS a cool shot.  I’m always reading how my blogger/photographer friends like Kate and Sarah search for off-the-cuff photos of daily life.  And here I was, some guy — a young executive, perhaps? — wearing a nice shirt and sports jacket, absorbed with his iphone.

The sun was beginning to set.  Perfect light.   I tried to imagine who he thought I was.  Did he think that I came straight from my fancy office — a law office, maybe, where I am almost a full partner — in some tall skyscraper, and I’m taking a little break on my iphone before I head home to my wife on the Upper West Side.  Or perhaps the photographer was documenting the alienation of modern urban life.  All around me was activity — thousands of people whizzing by, honking cabs, even news vans eager to get the gossip on the latest celebrity scandal, and here I was, alone, my face reflected in the glowing screen of my iPhone, talking to virtual friends instead of embracing real life.

I love art.  I love photography.  And I vowed to give the photographer the shot of his life.

I cheated my face a bit to the side, as I had learned in film school, and concentrated my focus on my iphone, faking a posing like an “alienated young New York executive alone with his Iphone,” half-hoping that my photo would end up as the cover for the next issue of New York Magazine, a special issue on “Has Social Media Stolen Our Souls?”

My acting was superb.  Helen Hayes, the grande dame of New York theater, would have been pleased by my performance.  But the photographer didn’t seem pleased.

“No.  No.” shouted the photographer, despite my best model pose.

He left his tripod for a brief second and ran to me, pointing downward.

“No.  No.  The back of you jacket is in the FOUNTAIN!”

So that was it.   The photographer was not telling me to look down at my iPhone so he can shoot my portrait.  He was trying to tell me to look down because the back of my sports jacket was dipping in the filthy water of the fountain.

“Sh*t,” I said to myself.

I slid the jacket off my body, trying to shake it dry.   What do I do now?  It was time for my big event.

I remembered my last “product event” that I went to in Manhattan.  It was about a month ago, a preview of the new washers and dryers for Whirlpool/Maytag.   At the end of the event, one of the representatives handed me his card and said I could contact him ANYTIME with questions about effective techniques for washing and drying.

I wish I hadn’t left his number on my desk.  I could have called him.

“Uh, yes… Maytag/Whirlpool PR guy, this is Neil Kramer from “Citizen of the Month.”  Do you remember me?  Well,  I am going to another PR event today.  I was supposed to go with another blogging friend, Marinka — remember her?   She was there too.  But now she has a cold and canceled, so I am going by myself, but I am a little anxious, and to make things worse, I just dipped my nice sports jacket into the famous fountain across from the Plaza Hotel, and every local news station is five feet away from me because of Charlie Sheen acting crazy and destroying the hotel, and now I see some of the news people are looking MY WAY, hoping that a new scandal might be developing.  What should I do?”

My phone rang.  It was Sophia.  She would have to do for advice instead of the Maytag repairman.   I told her my dilemma.  Her advice (after laughing at me) was that I should go to the hotel bathroom and use the heated hand blower on my sports jacket!

Clever.  Now do you see why I married her?

But I soon discovered a new obstacle:  The Plaza Hotel uses real towels, not heated blowers.

The clock was ticking.   I was already fifteen minutes late.  While in the Plaza Hotel restroom, I did my best to wring the back of my sports jacket dry, and then headed for the Oak Room.   I prayed that the room was very very dark.

Luckily, it was dark.    And I wasn’t alone without Marinka.   Twitter friend Jessica from Momma’s Gone City was there, as were Andrea,  Linda, and a dad blogger named Dada Rocks.  They may not have been intimidated by me, but they at least spoke to me.

It was fun to learn more about the business expectations of those who frequently go to these types of events.  The idea of dealing with brands and PR firms is still foreign to me.  Note:  Citizen of the Month is a very poor title for a PR friendly blog.

“Citizen of WHAT?!” someone asked me.  “Like Citizen watches?”

The event was decent enough, and no one noticed my wet sports jacket.  The organizers gave us then opportunity to “vote” on the products along with the real judges, but I have a feeling our opinions were not very important, and that we were merely asked to help in order to give us something to do as we drank our cocktails.  There were several displays of consumer products, M&M chocolate covered pretzels to new alcohol-free mouthwash.  We were give a checklist to judge the products in several categories such as “innovation” and whether we “like the product,” but since there was only one wrapped containers of deodorant, toothpaste, mouthwash, bug killer, etc. on the table, there was no way any of us could honestly or accurately rate these items unless we all passed around the deodorant, each tried it on our underarms, and then compared notes.

At a certain hour, the other three women bloggers had an appointment at another event, this one sponsored by Scrubbing Bubbles.  At first, I giggled, finding the concept of a Scrubbing Bubbles event as absurd, until I learned that it was occurring at The Rock Cafe at Rockefeller Center, and I immediately stopped laughing. (boy, these mommybloggers live the high life!  No cheapo street pretzels for them!)

I decided to walk my new blogger friends to Rockefeller Center, where I could catch the E train back to Queens.

As we crossed the street from the Plaza Hotel, we approached the Paris Hotel, an art house movie theater that has been here for decades.  There was a line outside the theater; the patrons had just started entering.   I had never heard of the film, and I don’t even remember the name, but it was some art film from a Spanish-speaking country.  There was a young scraggy, disheveled homeless dude standing outside the theater.  As we approached him, he turned to the four of us, sensing that we were compassionate writer-types, and asked us for money so he could BUY A TICKET to the movie.

You can write me an angry letter, if you want, for laughing at the plight of the homeless in the big city, but whatever happened to begging for a quarter for a cup of coffee?

Money for a ticket for a art film?  Does this happen in Tulsa?  No.  Only in New York!

Keep Those Jerks Gay!

October 21, 2010 / / 24 Comments

I am furious at Walmart. Livid. Let me explain.

I’m not having an easy time lately. I’m like a wounded animal away from Sophia. Yesterday, I went to the dentist, and arrived too early, so I had to sit in the waiting room for an hour and read the office’s collection of Cosmo magazines.

The trouble began with the hygienist, Natalya (another Russian chick! what is it with these Russian women?!). As she cleared my plaque, I looked into her eyes, which wasn’t difficult since the rest of her face was covered with a gauze-like mask, so I could ONLY see her eyes, and as I gazed into those watery pools of Russian soul, I wondered if she had read the same Cosmo that I just had in the waiting room.

“I wonder if her va-jay-jay is as untamed as the Siberian forest?” I said to myself.

During my wait for her, I perused much more than this one article. I also enjoyed a tutorial on how to best make love on your washing machine.

Coincidentally, washing machines had been on my mind lately, ever since I went to this mommyblogger-type Whirlpool-Maytag luncheon in Manhattan two weeks ago (I was invited! Why?!) , which I completely forgot to blog about until now.

One of the highlights of the afternoon was seeing this $2000 Whirpool washer that came with an included USB cord in the back (Twitter during the wash?).  Imagine the kinky stuff you could do with the Cosmo washing machine sex technique in combination with the USB cord. I can only imagine what is going to be on Facebook in the future.

Before you get too upset with me with the direction of this post, let me assure you that my mind is not only filled with lurid fantasies about unshaven pussies and front loading washers, although there is some funny double entendre there somewhere.

No, I also think about love. I miss being in love. Playing cards with Sophia. Even fighting over doing the dishes. But I need to be careful not to fall in love again too quickly. But that will come. I will be patient. I look to the future with optimism. I don’t need to rush. There are always women out there for me. Wonderful women.  Despite my many insecurities, I feel confident that I could effectively compete with the other men out there looking for the same thing. I understand the concept of the survival of the fittest. Like a peacock, I am readying my multi-colored plume.

And now to Walmart.  It’s simple.

The management consists of a bunch of selfish pricks.  I just read this today — Walmart is starting to stock a dopey religious-oriented book which allegedly cures gays from their homosexuality.

What the f*ck is wrong with you people? I know who you are, Walmart management. You are suburban white men, married with children, living in nice white-picketed homes. But what about me?  Clearly you forgot what it is like to be single, trying to pick up a Marissa Tomei look-alike in a short skirt at the Museum of Modern Art cafeteria during the Matisse exhibit on a Sunday afternoon, not that I would know anything about that first hand!

You ever hear of UNFAIR COMPETITION? Do you think a guy like me has any freakin’ chance with a really SMOKING HOT BABE, when she can go out INSTEAD with a cultured good-looking guy who likes to cook, clean, decorate the house — and has great six-pack-abs to boot — YES, I’m talking about the formerly gay guy who has turned straight after reading your book!

I SAY — KEEP THOSE F**KING gay dudes GAY! Who needs those arrogant assholes with their designer clothes and references to classic American musicals vying for the same women as us, clueless straight guys?  It’s like the New York Yankees playing the New York Mets!  We have no chance in hell to win the game.  Especially in a city like New York.  They even have nicer apartments!  Give these gay guys the skill — and worse — THE URGE — to f*ck our women, and the rest of us might as well just kill ourselves.

STOP WALMART FROM TRYING TO CURE GAY MEN. We do NOT want them competing for our women!  Vote now!  Please, share this on Twitter and Facebook.  Change your avatar to Dark Blue. Wear Dark Blue tomorrow.  Wear Dark Blue to Help Us Protect Straight Men from Gay Men Turned Straight.

Disclaimer: This message has been approved by Straight Men of America Afraid that the Hot Chicks Might Like the Gay Dudes Better Than Us if They Were Cured of Their Homosexuality!


Some van that almost ran me over yesterday in McDonald’s parking lot.

When in Greece…

October 14, 2010 / / 20 Comments

Church Tour Guide:  “I hope you’re having a wonderful time at our 39th annual Greek Festival here at the Greek Orthodox Shrine Church of St. Nicholas in Flushing, Queens.  I’m so glad that you have taken the time from the festivities outside to come take a tour of our beautiful church.  I will be your guide.  Feel free to interrupt me at any time to ask a question about the church icons, church practices, or anything else you might want to know about Greek Orthodox culture.”

Neil:  “I have a question.”

Church Tour Guide “Yes?”

Neil:  “Last week on Twitter a couple of us were arguing over whether gyro is pronounced “gear-o” or “year-o.”  Which one IS the correct pronunciation?”

It’s Year-O.  Case Closed.

Talking to Real People

October 10, 2010 / / 18 Comments

OK, so where were we? Oh, yeah, I was moping around my apartment in queens, writing posts about bringing hookers home for cake with my mother and getting trolled by some crazy person.

Yesterday, I said “enough is enough.” I was living in New York City now, the “Big Apple,” and it was time for me to live the life that was I was destined for — hobnobbing with the best and brightest in the big city.

So, off I went — from the land of Archie Bunker, the Nanny, and Ugly Betty, over the bridge (or rather under the river in the subway) to the Island of Manhattan.

As I took in all the neon lights and Saturday night hub-bub, my depression melted away as a fast as an ice cream cone in Coney Island in August.

I had a event to attend. I was going to NYU for the book launch party of the novel Petty Magic by Camille DeAngelis. I met Camille via Maggie Dammit and Sarah Miller on Twitter. Camille is utterly charming online and in real life, and I can’t wait to start reading her new literary fantasy. Largehearted Boy recently wrote about her novel, saying:

“If you read Camille DeAngelis’s debut novel Mary Modern, you experienced firsthand the author’s talent for creating truly unique and clever fictional worlds. Her second novel, Petty Magic, is equally impressive, inventively combining the paranormal, historical flashbacks, and a love story for the ages. A smart and funny page turner, Petty Magic will appeal to all ages of readers from young adults to senior citizens, and everyone in between.”

It was an honor to be invited to the book party.

One problem. I have hardly left my apartment for the previous two weeks, so I was overly-hyper to be in a room with so many other smart people. And since so much of my social interaction recently has been limited to Twitter and Facebook, I was out of shape in my ability to have normal social conversation.

After chatting with the witty Camille, I found myself talking with another attractive, intelligent woman with an open face, the type of person who instantly made me feel comfortable enough to open up to her. So I talked to her. And I talked. And I talked. I talked about New York. And LA. And books. And politics. And Facebook. And my mother. And Sophia. And living in my childhood bedroom in Queens. It was as if I was still on Twitter and I could chat all day without fear of being unfollowed by 98% of you. I mentioned that I met Camille online, and praised the blogosphere as a place where one can meet others as a meeting of minds, where you connect rather spiritually without holding any of the superficial stereotypes or real-life misconceptions you might have in the real world. It’s as if you know the “heart and mind and soul” of the person rather than the physical entity.

“I remember the first time I met a fellow blogger,” I said. “He was this guy who lived in Northern California. We really bonded. One day, he came for a visit, so I went to meet him at the airport, and when I opened up the door to the car and looked at him, I said, “Oh my God, you’re black!”

There were uncomfortable moment with my friendly listener at the party. I could feel the humor hissing out of my conversation balloon. I immediately back-stepped, trying to explains myself.

“It’s not that it really mattered that he was black.” I announced. “I just was surprised that he was. He had a European name. It was almost Swedish, so I imagined him very differently. Not that you can’t be a black guy with a Swedish name. I was just saying that you don’t know who a blogger is until you meet him, so you have no preconceived stereotypes. Uh, not that I have any preconceived stereotypes of African-Americans.”

I was digging a hole to China. I decided to change the subject.

“And, so, uh, what do you do?” I asked.

“I’m Camille’s literary agent” she answered matter-of-factly.

“Oh.”

I figured my best approach was to continue asking questions about her, instead of talking about myself and putting my foot in my mouth.

“So, are you originally from New York?”

“No, from Florida.”

“Hey, my mother started going to Florida every winter. To Boca Raton!”

“Well, I grew up in Northern Florida. Not that many people know much about that part of Florida.”

“Sure they do! Isn’t that where that pastor lives who wanted to burn all the Korans?”

Yeah. I’m smooth.

Anyway — thank you Camille for a lovely evening.


Neilochka with Camille

I know many of my blogging friends have books that will be published this year, (such as you — Kyran). I hope these blogging friends will also invite me along to whatever literary parties they attend in New York, so I can chat with THEIR agents!

One Day Off Twitter (Or “Getting Off” — Ha Ha)

October 7, 2010 / / 15 Comments

Sophia and I had an unlikely laugh today, thanks to… of all things, Twitter.

I wanted to stay off of Twitter for a week, but I just didn’t have the self-control to do it. That’s when a friendly voice on Twitter came up — a blogger named @krisiallen — with the million dollar solution:

@Neilochka give someone you trust your password & have them change it & not tell you what it is.

I thought that was genius. Seriously. I think someone could develop a whole service out of this. You give access to your social media passwords to some bond-trusted customer service representative in, say India, and when you get too distracted from your work, you text this service, writing, “Cut me off from Twitter and Facebook for three hours, and don’t let me back on, even if I call you crying.”

A few friends offered to be my bad cop, but I knew the perfect person to help me with my plan — one person who was so loaded with integrity, and strong-willed, that she wouldn’t cave in no matter how much I begged or offered free Olive Garden coupons. Yes, Sophia.

Note: In retrospect, this was not the smartest decision, considering that she now has access to everything I’ve ever written privately to any of you on DM, but let’s just say that despite my advanced degrees, I’m not the brightest guy on the block.

At midnight, she cut me off from Twitter. I felt a sense of relief.

Unfortunately, this morning, there was an unforeseen glitch. I noticed that Twitter had sent me an email notifying me of the password change and wanting me to confirm it. I had to call Sophia to tell her to change the password AND the email.

After my morning coffee, I sat down to work. I was productive for about five minutes, when I absentmindedly grabbed my iphone to check Twitter on one of my seventeen different Twitter apps. And — boom — just like that — I was given access to the pot of gold. Even after the password and email change, I was back on Twitter. Would I have to destroy every laptop in the country before I could be free of this tempting siren with her heaving social media bosom? I was advised by a friend online that I would need to SIGN OUT first for the new password to take affect. Twitter certainly makes it difficult to leave, don’t they? Like leaving the Mafia?

I went one step further. I deleted all of the Twitter apps off of my iPhone.

Around lunchtime, I became hungry again… and not for lunch. For gossip. Was anyone talking about me? Perhaps there was an emergency on the blogosphere and someone was calling out for me on Twitter, desperately needing my help, and I was selfishly absent.

“@neilochka? @neilochka! We need you.”

Maybe I shouldn’t reveal this to other twitter addicts, but if you go onto Google and search you Twitter handle, like @neilochka, you can see if anyone has mentioned you! Sadly, my only mention was a spam offer for “penis pills from Brazil.” I guess there weren’t that many emergencies I had to deal with today. I could go back to work.

Five minutes ago, I went on my iphone to check on Facebook (which has been my poor cousin procrastination tool of today — I’m just not that into you, Facebook!) And there is was, sitting in a little corner of one of my iphone screens, right next to Evernote — Hootsuite, a Twitter client that I rarely used. I opened it up and instantly saw all my missed Direct Messages. There was only one, but it was like manna from the sky. I decided to keep this twitter application a little secret between me and God. I wouldn’t use it to update. I would just read up on what others are doing. I would just use it to pimp my new blog posts. That’s legit. If I don’t pimp my posts on Twitter, no one is gonna read them, right? And less money for my family.

But that would be cheating. And we are all trying to teach the next generation that cheating is bad. And I am supposed to be the Citizen of the Month.

I haven’t deleted the app just yet. But I will… right after I publish this post. Honestly.

P.S. — More important than this boring post is this — I don’t usually send my readers off to other blog posts written by better bloggers than I am for obvious selfish reasons, such as not wanting to feel inferior, or having you read her blog before mine, but Jenn Mattern, the super-talented writer of Breed ‘Em and Weep, wrote this post about marriage, divorce, hurt, and healing that is just beautiful, very personal in nature, and touched me a lot.

And while I greatly admire her writing, I even admire her more for her amazing ability to stay off of Twitter without resorting to using handcuffs.

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